


Missing

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Sad, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-14 02:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15378612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Thranduil walks through the ruins after the battle’s end.





	Missing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ephers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephers/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for Ephers’s “Thranduil/Meludir [a kiss in grief]” request on [my tumblr prompt list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/176075204220/prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t seem so long ago to Thranduil that Dale’s streets were lush and vibrant, full of life and laughter, its people thriving nearly as much as his own. It’s a terrible pain now to see them decimated, the buildings not just derelict, but the paths littered with of blood and bodies. His own casualties are the smallest percentage, but every one of them weighs on him heavily, and Thranduil takes note of every fallen face. He knows every name. No guard is sworn into his service without his noticing, and every one of them is missed.

The _grief_ is overwhelming, but Thranduil can’t afford to be toppled. Legolas was his last thread of hope, and when he knows that his son is still alive, blessedly unscathed, he holds himself a little straighter. He walks through the carnage with his head held high, embodying the strength that his people need. He confers with his captains, takes stock of the piling reports, and offers a comforting hand to those he passes. He doesn’t cry like the humans do, but his pain is just as poignant. 

He’s fresh from the makeshift healing tents, where all those with skills as hurrying to help the wounded, when he spots a lone figure down one of the narrow allies. A slew of broken bricks obstructs the path, but Thranduil scales the rubble easily, passing into one of the few forgotten hallways that isn’t marred by blood. Meludir is huddled near the end, his knees pulled up to his face and his honey hair a tangled mess about his shoulders. His armour is dirtied, but Thranduil can see no open cuts. When he stops before his guard, Meludir lifts his head. Thranduil can see the streaks of dried tears on his cheeks.

It’s unbecoming of an Elven warrior to hide away in alleys. On any other occasion, Thranduil would scold him for it—his army is no place for favouritism. But within all the devastation, Thranduil makes this small allowance. Meludir is still young, and he _was_ innocent—this must be the first time that he’s ever even considered _death_. Thranduil understands how cruel, how final it must seem. He never wanted to bring his beautiful consort into all this mess. He kneels down beside Meludir and sets a hand atop his slender shoulder, clasping it with as much reassurance as he can offer. Meludir shudders, his brows knitting together.

He opens his mouth twice before he manages to murmur, “I am sorry, my king... it is just... so many were my _friends_.”

Thranduil promises, “They are together now in the Halls of Mandos, proud of all they have done.” 

Meludir nods, but it’s a fragile, weak thing that tugs at Thranduil’s heartstrings. His arm shifts further around Meludir’s shoulders, enveloping them, and he pulls Meludir into him for a warm embrace that Meludir quickly melts into. He buries his face in Thranduil’s chest, and Thranduil kisses his temple, holding him close.

When the tremours have passed, Thranduil withdraws. He holds Meludir still and draws him up to his feet. With a steadying breath, Meludir stands on his own. Together, they return.


End file.
